Affected
by Cumberbabe
Summary: He had no idea the affect the Fall would have, on himself or those he was trying to protect.


Sitting in the dark lab, waiting for Molly to finish her shift he thought of all he would give up when he died. He would no longer be able to work cases with Lestrade. No more delicious puzzles and intriguing mysteries to solve. He would no longer be able to do experiments at home. He would no longer be able to even **go **home. He wouldn't have access to any of the things he had left at home, his violin, his dressing gowns, his skull … his friend.

John, his brain paused to pull up all he knew of him. Without him, there would be no one to make him tea. No one to tell him how amazing he was or to be in awe of his thinking. No one to talk to, or at, or laugh with, he didn't laugh with anyone but John. How would he think without John? He always did his best thinking with his friend, the conductor of light, beside him. He needed his blogger.

The more he thought of John, the tighter his chest felt. He was flooded with feelings he didn't understand. His face flushed, his throat constricted, he could barely breathe. He dropped his head into his hands, and scrubbed them through his hair again and again, trying to get himself back under control. He had no place for feelings. He needed to block them out as he'd always done and focus on the plan, his plan. His most brilliant piece of work so far. If it didn't come off perfectly, none of these _feelings _would matter anyway.

But he just couldn't keep his mind from returning to all he would lose. He would no longer be able to work at St. Bart's. No more waltzing in, demanding to see a body and watching to see how fast Molly would jump to comply. His heart began to compress again as he thought of no more Molly and no more morgue. He always felt so important in Molly's company. He took advantage of her infatuation for his own gains, all while secretly enjoying the way she looked at him.

She had surprised him with her deductions about him. He never gave her enough credit, she was more clever and more observant than most. He knew she was really the only person who could help him. She would know the whole plan, and so he wouldn't have to totally give her up. His chest relaxed and he could breathe again. She would be the anchor that kept him tethered to his real life. He would return, triumphant, and all those who doubted him would be made to feel how foolish they had been… as long as the plan worked, and really, it was **his **plan, why wouldn't it work?

So he sat in the dark, waiting for Molly, going over and over and over the plan in his mind and thinking of all that would change in his life. He had to make sure that they all stayed safe. All the people he hadn't realized were so important to him until they were threatened.

* * *

Standing at the back of the church, hidden by the columns and the shadows, he thought about that night. He was realizing now that even though he had been planning his own death to try and keep them all safe, he had still only been thinking of himself, of the affect his death would have on him. Seeing them now, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Molly and John, attending his funeral, standing black clad around an empty coffin, he began to observe the affect his death had had on them.

John was barely holding it together and Sherlock could tell that he had not slept or eaten in the week since the fall. His suit was wrinkled and his hair was not much better. He had an arm around a sobbing Mrs Hudson, her face buried in her hands. Even Molly, who knew he was alive, was crying in the arms of Lestrade, who looked so grave and guilt ridden. Mycroft stood by them, trying to look above it all but he was here, wasn't he? He hadn't sent a representative, he had attended himself and that spoke volumes.

Sherlock was overwhelmed by their pain and by there obvious care, maybe even love, for him. It dug into him and exposed all those feelings he tried to keep buried. These were his friends, his family, and they were grieving for him. Obviously, they would miss him as much, or maybe even more, than he would miss them. It had never occurred to him that they would be so affected. Was it still worth it? He was hurting the only people he cared for in the world. Was taking down the spider's web worth their agony?

It had to be. He would make it worth it, for his sacrifice and theirs.

* * *

Thank you for reading, please leave a review or comment to let me know what you thought. I am very new at this so any reviews are appreciated. I find it quite difficult to write in Sherlock's voice so I hope it came out alright.


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